Возвращение Шерлока Холмса
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez
Itwasstrangethere,intheverydepthsofthetown,withtenmilesofman’shandiworkoneverysideofus,tofeeltheirongripofNature,andtobeconsciousthattothehugeelementalforcesallLondonwasnomorethanthemolehillsthatdotthefields.Iwalkedtothewindow,andlookedoutonthedesertedstreet.Theoccasionallampsgleamedontheexpanseofmuddyroadandshiningpavement.AsinglecabwassplashingitswayfromtheOxfordStreetend.
“Well,Watson,it’saswellwehavenottoturnoutto-night,”saidHolmes,layingasidehislensandrollingupthepalimpsest.“I’vedoneenoughforonesitting.Itistryingworkfortheeyes.SofarasIcanmakeout,itisnothingmoreexcitingthananAbbey’saccountsdatingfromthesecondhalfofthefifteenthcentury.Halloa!halloa!halloa!What’sthis?”
Amidthedroningofthewindtherehadcomethestampingofahorse’shoofs,andthelonggrindofawheelasitraspedagainstthecurb.ThecabwhichIhadseenhadpulledupatourdoor.
“Whatcanhewant?”Iejaculated,asamansteppedoutofit.
“Want?Hewantsus.Andwe,mypoorWatson,wantovercoatsandcravatsandgoloshes,andeveryaidthatmaneverinventedtofighttheweather.Waitabit,though!There’sthecaboffagain!There’shopeyet.He’dhavekeptitifhehadwantedustocome.Rundown,mydearfellow,andopenthedoor,forallvirtuousfolkhavebeenlonginbed.”
Whenthelightofthehalllampfelluponourmidnightvisitor,Ihadnodifficultyinrecognizinghim.
